


Before the Sun Falls

by DoubleMastectomy



Series: Zone Five Quarantine Fair [3]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album)
Genre: (I don't know a better tag for that I feel like "self harm" doesn't fit the situation exactly), Better Living Industries, Blood, Blood and Injury, Brainwashing, Dermatillomania, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Medical, Mind Control, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Trans Character, god these tags are a mess but
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24101338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleMastectomy/pseuds/DoubleMastectomy
Summary: Your name is Gary Levko and your life follows a perfect routine until you notice an ache.
Series: Zone Five Quarantine Fair [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733770
Comments: 36
Kudos: 29





	1. Your Father's Name

Your bed is grey, your walls are grey, and as you slide your slippers on your feet and head to the bathroom for your morning routine everything you see is grey, flat, and lifeless. It’s peaceful, and you like it.

Your name is Gary Levko. It was your father’s name and you wear it with pride, like you wear everything about yourself with pride. Your job, your home, and your clothes all fill you to the brim with a fiery pride that almost scares you, but only almost. 

In the mirror you comb back your hair and slick it down with gel, cool to the touch. Then from your medicine cabinet you take some lotion, also cool to the touch but grainier and almost dense, and you rub it into your arms. It was prescribed to you by a doctor a few months ago, or a year ago, or you can’t remember. You rub it into your neck. It’s for your dry skin, chronic and hereditary. You rub it into your chest. You were told that your chest would be the most important to cover, chafing from your dress shirts would only further irritate any dry skin there. You lather, rinse, and start buttoning up. Crisp white shirt, crisp grey suit, tailored and fine and perfect. You’re filled with pride. Pop a few pills as you grab your briefcase and you’re good to go.

State Services department. 

Battery Towers building A. 

You’re a customer service representative (you’re proud of that) and you walk along (heel-toe, heel-toe) over the lobby’s white tiles as if it were a red carpet. The receptionist with her pretty hair and cutesy smile waves you through as you flash your name tag (Gary Levko, your father’s name) and walk past. In line, lined up one by one, you stand for the elevator and you notice something, small and insignificant: a dull ache in your arm. 

An unintentionally grimace of discomfort spreads across your face, but you’re quick to correct that with a smile, keep smiling. You just stretch out your elbow a bit by your side to work free the knot. It doesn’t let up. Small and insignificant as it is. The elevator doors open, golden and plain, and you smile and step inside with five or six other workers, all smiling, keep smiling, pressing their floor numbers on the wall’s panel, one by one. As the doors shut with a click and the elevator lifts, you feel the familiar tug of gravity and you feel your arm, maybe a massage would straighten it out. Your fingers grace the skin but it feels odd, a bit numb. That must be it then, you’ve pinched a nerve. Good to know it’s nothing serious.

57th floor. 

You leave the elevator, and familiar, familiar, you walk past the cubicles, one, two, three, four, a coworker waves acknowledgement, you wave back, five, and smile back, six, always smiling, seven, familiar, familiar:

Cubicle 8. 

Your home away from home, a sigh of relief. You pull out your chair, comfortable and soft it even has a creaking spring to it, and you shake the computer mouse waking up the reliable device. Here we go.

Username: GLevko02

Password: ••••••••••••

The emails load up quickly, filling the screen with your daily tasks like a smorgasbord. After taking moment to write something to the company doc about your arm, you get to work.

It’s a productive day. And it flies by like nothing. A steady bland pace. (It’s peaceful, and you like it.)


	2. Smiling

That next morning, the sun rises over Battery City. Out your apartment window you watch the pedestrians below go about their mornings. Cars rush over the street, and trains glide along the overhead monorail. Things are nice. You smile.

You shave, comb your hair back, apply lotion.

Get dressed in the suit you pressed fresh last night.

Meds, briefcase, check your reflection. Perfect, beautiful, off you go.

And after just a brisk walk you’re there at the State Services department, Battery Towers building B this time. Your doctor's appointment would be this morning, 27th floor. Golden elevators, buttons, you ascend. And your arm aches, damn it.

This office’s receptionist isn’t as pretty as your building’s but she smiles at you as you step onto the floor, empty save for you two. You smile as you walk over to her desk, square and tall, and you tell her your name:

“Gary Levko.”

From behind the glass partition, she shuffles a few papers, “9:43 meeting, correct?”

An irrational note of fear passes through you for a second. You’re not late are you? Or early? But a quick glance at the analogue clock on the wall, ticking away steadily, settles that. You’re just on time. The clock continues ticking, slow, steady. You nod, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Have a seat.”

The white chairs in the waiting room are angular and hard, as if they were built with discomfort in mind. A clever design choice if you say so yourself. You place your briefcase at your side as you sit. And you cross your legs and you wait. The clock keeps ticking.

The walls of this room advertise Better Living posters, some for products and some for morale. Behind them, the paint job is a faded blue, a shade so subtle it almost feels as if you’d see something more if you just stared at it long enough. Your eyes are adjusting.

The doctor calls your name out, jolting you to your senses. He stands in the doorway, a clipboard in hand, and directs you to follow him.

Inside his office it feels more corporate than medical, not that you mind. You sit in a black leather armchair and he sits in his, a desk between you two. You fidget with your briefcase's handle in your lap. The clock keeps tickiing.

The doctor wears a black face mask but his white coat is the brightest thing in the room, drawing your attention to him as he moves, pulling some files out of his desk drawer and already scratching some marks onto them with a pen. Along the walls that surround you are glass cabinets and closets, and hanging from wire are his framed degrees along with a framed photo of the Director herself, signed. That makes you smile a bit at the positivity in an otherwise grim space. You can tell just from his eyes that the doctor isn’t smiling though. He’s too important for that.

“You said your arm’s giving you trouble?”

“There’s an ache in it. My left one. And a pinched nerve.”

His voice is flat, “What’s your dosage?”

“Oh, uh,” You fumble around with your suit jacket’s inner pocket, pulling out the list you’d stashed away this morning. It's folded up clean and square. “Here. That’s all I’ve been prescribed.”

The doctor takes the list from you and unfolds it methodically. You watch his eyes glaze over it, reading. They light up at something. He picks up your file and flips through it, as if double checking.

“Of course, of course. One moment.”

He stands up quickly, his chair skidding against the floor under him, and he unlocks the nearest cabinet. Inside, he turns the various bottles toward himself as he reads the labels.

“Here.”

You’re handed a bottle white and smooth and beautiful. It’s labeled with the Better Living logo and fits incredibly comfortably in your hand.

“Pain meds,” He says, “Twice a day.” And then he practically shoos you out before you can ask for anything else.

Standing outside on the sidewalk in the shadow of the Battery Towers, you’re still holding onto that bottle. You smile back at it. Things are looking up again, you think, what a beautiful day. People walk around you. A clock still ticks somewhere. You crack open the cap and take one of the pills now, you might as well, plastic and sleek.

And besides the slight, small, insignificant, ache you still feel, the day goes well. It’s routine. The only thing that catches your attention is a slightly unusual disruption towards the end of your workday, around 15:30.

It’s a commotion in the hallway. You look up from the email you’ve just written (“Dear beloved taxpayer…”) and a few of your coworkers look up as well (“...we at the State Services received your inquiry in good health…”) but your supervisor reprimands the lot of you.

Stay focused. The commotion is under control.

You suppose it is (“...and we appreciate the feedback…”) but it’s getting louder. Shouting now. (“...Better Living would love to make things right…”). Over the rows of identical cubicle dividers you take a peek.

Someone in the hallway is getting arrested by a scarecrow unit.

(“...so we will be sending a personalized agent to your apartment, Block 598, at 19:00 to handle this issue in person. This is not a request. Keep smiling.”)

You shake your head and return to work, pressing send on the email with a tap.

And before you leave for the day, your inbox pings with a memo marked urgent. You, along with every other employee on this floor, click to open it at once.

“Representatives," it reads,

"Information leak detected and shut down efficiently on 57th floor. Suitable actions have been executed. Icebox. If you or a loved one have been experiencing intrusive thoughts of insurgence, contact the proper supervisor or local scarecrow unit ASAP.

Keep Smiling.”

That evening you toss your briefcase to your bed, back home, your home, peaceful and grey. And you stretch out your arm. It aches, and you don’t know why, but that should be over with soon. And you smile (keep smiling) and you change into a casual pullover.

And that night, when you shower, warm water runs through your hair. You’ve turned the heat up as far as it goes in hope that the steam might help your arm. Why do you keep thinking about your arm, the issue is so small and insignificant, is your attention span in check? You lather and rinse, clean yourself, your arm aches. You just need to stop thinking about it. You clean yourself.

You can feel the water pooling at your feet. With a sigh you know you’ve been in here too long already. If you want to wake up punctually tomorrow, and you do, you’ll be needing to sleep soon. It’s getting late.

Stepping out of the shower and breathing in the humid misty air, you wipe off with your towel, soft and grey, making sure to dry your hair out completely. It’s fluffy without hair gel, and its peppery silver streak shimmers in the fluorescents. 

You hang up the towel, put on your sleeping clothes, and take a pill. And then, unfortunately, as you grab the doorknob to head out, you can’t help but notice something in your peripheral vision, something off about your perfect reflection through the foggy glass.

Faded and pale, a shape crawls up your neck. You turn to the mirror, cold, and wipe the condensation off in one stroke to get a better image. There's some sort of discoloration over your clavicle. Pulling at your shirt collar, you lean forward and look. It’s not dry skin, but it must be the beginning stages of it, or maybe of a rash, or maybe _something_. And it’ll be hidden alright by your uniform, so it’s fine, really. But it’s pinkish and lighter than the surrounding skin, a smooth patchy splotch against you. First your arm and now this, you could almost laugh. But it’s not funny. But you keep smiling.

Straighten up and let go of your shirt, you can deal with this tomorrow.


	3. The Sun's Ghost

Back at the doctor’s office that next morning, you show him the spot on your skin.

“I have dry skin. That’s what this is, right?”

He doesn’t even look at your body. He only looks over his notes, more tired than he looked yesterday. “Do you take anything for your skin.”

You swallow, your throat dry. (Why? Are you nervous? Why are you nervous?) “I was prescribed medication for it, a lotion. Twice a day. Better Living brand, uh, allantoin skin cream, with silicone properties I think.”

He raises a harsh eyebrow at you, making you jump. “You ‘think’?”

“No, I know. That’s what it is. Twice a day.”

The doctor sighs, sits down his clipboard, and adjusts the mask around his mouth. “Yes, yes, that checks out with your medical history. The prescription you’d been given is powerful but it’s not a permanent solution, to be frank. Your problematic skin is likely building up a pigheaded resistance to our cure. For now, use the lotion thrice daily, and I’ll schedule you in for a more permanent cosmetic procedure within a few weeks. This is not a request. I’ll email you the date once it’s set.”

You nod, thankful. “Thank you so much, th-” something he said stops you. “This would be a cosmetic procedure?”

Frustration is tangible through the doctor's voice as he answers your question with another, helpful, question, “Well isn’t dry skin, in the end, simply cosmetic?”

Your eyes dart around the room, on instinct. As if you’re looking for something, as if you’re looking for more satisfying answers than the ones you're being given.

“I… I suppose you’re right.”

“No, by all means, if you have any further questions about your healthcare, feel free to ask away.”

It’s a trap. You know it’s a trap, and as you fidget in your leather chair you scold yourself for thinking so (knowing so).

You smile.

“No, you’ve been very helpful today, thank you.” And you assume that’ll be the end of it. He clearly wants you out of his hair and you can’t help but eagerly agree. What’s gotten into you today? You begin to stand.

“One moment.” He holds up a finger stopping you in your tracks. He opens his desk drawer with a sigh. From it, he produces an electronic tablet, glowing faintly blue with LCD. “Now if you don’t mind I’ve got a few questions for you, Mr. Levko.”

“Of course, sir.” You sit down again, upright and smiling.

He speaks slowly, choosing his words with care, “Now tell me, what are your... general opinions of Better Living Industries?”

That catches you off guard. “Why are you asking me this? Have I done something wrong?”

“Two dosage corrections in two days, it’s just a precaution. Now answer the question.”

You shake your head vaguely, stumped by the request but happy enough to oblige, “I love Better Living, they protect me and I feel fulfilled. Is there anything else you need?” You smile, nervously.

“Have you been having any thoughts of insurgency or dissent from Battery City?”

You're insulted. You’ve been doing everything right, and to have it suggested that you don’t take pride in yourself, and your city, is degrading.

“No,” you respond.

“Share with me your thoughts on the Director.”

“Well, what is there to say? She’s a genius. A, uh, visionary even. She worked hard to get where she is, and I’m honored to serve under her.” You glance at the door. Why do you feel so stuck here? Why aren’t you happy, Gary? You're smiling.

Your doctor presses a few buttons on his tablet and continues, “On a scale of one to ten, ten being the highest, how satisfied are you with Better Living in your day to day life?”

“Ten.” You smile.

"On a scale of one to ten, how highly do you regard Better Living in your day to day life?”

“Ten.” You smile. 

“On a scale of one to ten, how willing are you to die for Better Living in your day to day life?”

“Ten.” You’re smiling. You _swear_ you’re smiling. You’re doing everything right and you’re smiling, can’t he see that? Can’t he see that you’re trying so hard? You need this. You need this right now. To be the perfect citizen. To be the perfect man. And you are, you’re smiling aren’t you?

But what if he doesn’t believe you, what then? Will you lose your perfect life? Will they tear it away from your little greedy ungrateful hands? Your house, your job, it’s all you love. And BL/i, you love BL/i more than words could say, but why can’t they see that? Why can’t they see you’re smiling?

“Does the name ‘Cherri Cola’ mean anything to you?”

You freeze.

It doesn’t mean anything to you.

It’s a strange name, like a cheap gimmick.

This must be a control test for your responses, just a nonsense question to gauge your temperament under pressure or something. That must be it, that has to be all this is.

You need to say something, a simple response, a no.

But you can’t, not easily at least. Something about the name makes you feel something, like an old memory you’ve forgotten. And you feel hot, you’re sweating. Must be your suit, too many layers, did you put on deodorant this morning? You adjust your collar.

And for the first time, you lie: “No.”

He writes something down.

“Alright, you can go now.”

Under your sweaty palms, the door opens, the cage opens.

That night, in the dark of your perfect grey apartment, you receive an email from State Services.

On your personal computer you look at an electronic brochure in your inbox. A photo of a beautiful porno droid (a blue one, your favorite model, not that you've ever actually had the guts to order one yourself) sits smiling next to the text: “Company Getaway Package!” Well, consider yourself interested. You chuckle, breathy and quiet, as you scroll down and keep reading.

“All inclusive as part of our Better Living Employee Benefits Program™. Come enjoy the natural beauty of Battery City at our indoor spa. Brunch of charcuterie, soylent, and fruit over an icebox, will be served.”

You rub your five o’clock shadow tentatively. The light from the computer screen burns at your dry tired eyes. 

You wouldn’t mind this getaway package. You need a break. You’ve been feeling wrong lately. Maybe this could fix you.

“Contact your supervisor to get in on this limited time offer while spots last!”

You bookmark the email.

You’re looking at your reflection in the bathroom, not much later. Your arm doesn’t hurt anymore. That’s good. But when you pull down your shirt to observe your collarbone again, your skin doesn’t look much better. Even now that you’re in the middle of your third application of lotion this day, it almost looks a little worse. Distressing organic rivers of discoloration creeping up your throat. At this rate you won’t be able to hide it from your coworkers much longer. 

You roll up your sleeves and continue rubbing the lotion in, over your arms where now more marks have appeared since you last checked. You hate how smooth the marks are. If this was just a superficial condition you wouldn’t mind it so much, but this is beyond surface level, it’s like the skin itself is changed deep into your flesh. You suspect a cross section would reveal damage deep into your body, though you cringe at the thought.

Interestingly however, you notice your left arm from the elbow down shows no signs of irregularity. Must just be your arm’s way of apologizing for all the trouble it’s been giving you.

You begin to unbutton your dress shirt for the night. Sliding it off yourself while locked in an angry glare with your stubborn reflection. You’ll have all this fixed in no time, you promise yourself. Something creeps along your chest. Your eyes widen at your chest.

You feel as if you’re falling, your body's dread and adrenaline lighter than air. What you see is unreal. It can’t be real. Lightly with only the tips of your first two fingers, you trace along these new marks where they cut across your torso, horizontally, faintly and stretched. 

They’re scars. That's what they are, what they all are. There is no rash or dry skin, how ignorant could you be, these are scars. And you don’t know how you got them.

And the ones over your chest are serious, extreme, and worrying. Too controlled to be random, they’re surgery scars. Is there something wrong with your lungs? Their symmetry seems to suggest so. But you wince to think of what could be inside of you now, under a sealed layer of skin, hidden. Who wanted this to be hidden? 

How did you not know that you’d had surgery of all things?

But the strangest thing about these scars is their shape. You pinch at them thoughtfully. They’re not only stretched, but uneven as well. And along their length they’ll grow as thin as a simple cut in some segments but thick as the width of your thumb in others. Better Living would never accept such sloppy work at any of their hospitals.

Besides that, all you can know for sure is that you’re covered in scars. Two of them clearly man made. None of them from BL/i.

You’re covered in scars and you don’t know how you got them.

You run a hand through your hair. What do you do now? Do you keep up the lotion routine as if nothing changed? You don’t know if your lotion was a misdiagnosis or a lie, and you honestly don’t care. How could you?

Either way it was done with your best interests in mind. Better Living has your best interests in mind. And Better Living does not make mistakes. What matters in this moment is that it’s not working, whatever it is.

You hope the doc gets back to you about his cosmetic procedure idea sooner rather than later. 

So do you stop using the lotion?

A part of you, unfortunately, wants to stop.

You close the bottle and return it to its shelf in your medicine cabinet.

What do you do next?

Do you email the doctor again?

Do you bring this up with him?

His questioning at the end of today’s session makes you hesitate to go back.

You could survive until your procedure, you think.

You just need to act like everything’s still normal.

Everything is practically still normal.

You just need to keep smiling.

You’re scared.

You don’t want to admit that you’re scared.

Your life was perfect. Simple. Easy. You don’t want this. You didn’t ask for this. You did nothing wrong. You're smiling. You don’t know how to smile any harder and you’re begging the world to please see that.

Your name is Gary Levko. And you’re losing control.


	4. Two Emails

A week later you’re stamping files. You’re in a side room where some of the State Service records are kept. A silver cabinet stands proudly to your left, a copy machine to your right. In front of you on an office table your work is laid out, manila folders and packets of papers in neat little stacks of your creation. Organized, orderly, grey, everything is grey. 

And you’re normal. Everything is normal. You have control. 

File. Stamp. Repeat. The stacks grow around you as you sort. 

“Heard you’re going to the retreat. Lucky bastard.” It’s your coworker, Bob Fillmore, turning the copier on beside you. It hums as the inner mechanisms begin to spin and warm. 

You look up to meet his smile, slightly perplexed, “What retreat?” 

“The Getaway Package.” He shrugs nonchalantly, “Overheard Boss mention it to a scarecrow. She said you’d been the only one from this floor who'd made it in. I’m jealous if I’m being honest, I’d somehow missed the memo. Would have gladly applied if I knew about it.” 

He keeps droning on, Bob isn't known for keeping things short, but you stop listening. The email. You’d never decided on replying or not (you’d never been good at making decisions yourself) but… you got in? You were selected? You’re going? 

Surely you must’ve replied in that case, probably signed up for it in the morning half asleep, or at lunch absentmindedly, or… something. Well, thank the Director for that. You could use a getaway, a quick break. A quick reset. 

File. Stamp. Smile. 

Still, it’s odd that you can’t remember replying. 

Bob lays a paper over the glass of the scanner and gets to work doing whatever it is he’s up to. The machine hums. You shuffle another stack of papers together into a pile. 

“I could use a break…” 

“Ha!” Bob laughs, “That’s not like you. Where’s that go-getter attitude?” 

There’s a nervousness to his voice. 

You suck your teeth, “Had to get my dosage adjusted.” 

He nods, “Eh, I get that. But Better Living will take care of you, you’re in good hands.” He smirks placing a hand against your shoulder. 

“I suppose I am.” 

A week ago you would’ve been comforted by that thought. That Better Living is in charge, that they know best. But now all you feel is unease. Something is wrong, but hopefully only with you. 

Things will be ok again soon. Once you get a break you’re sure you'll be fixed. 

Before you know it your work is done. You count off the stacks of paper just to double check (two, four, six, eight…) and alright, that’s the right amount. You collect up the paperwork and slide it all back into the filing cabinet. Then without a word, you head out, back to the cubicles, passing cubicle by cubicle, they repeat, they build a pattern across the room, a sculpted work of greyscale art sunlit by the floor to ceiling windows that line the south side. 

As you walk, you blink in discomfort. Your arm hurts. 

It’s been hurting again these past few days, worse than before. You can feel it in your bones and it doesn’t just ache, it throbs, It cramps up now too, the muscles contract on themselves in a silent vengeful protest of something, of what? Nothing’s wrong. You strain to keep your elbow locked out, fighting against its attempted movement. No one needs to know your body is breaking. No one needs to know you’re failing BL/i. 

No. You aren’t failing, you’re normal. Nothing’s wrong. You have control. 

Don’t you? 

Keep smiling. 

Cubicle 8. 

You’re smiling. 

There’s a notification on your desktop as the screen wakes up. A little blue notification shining a joyful “2” in your direction above your email app. You sit down and hover your mouse over the notification, hesitating though you’re not sure why. 

You click and your inbox opens.

The first email is from the company doctor, and at the sight of it you breathe a sigh of relief 

“Mr. Levko, 

At your company Getaway starting in five days...” 

So soon? 

“...you’ve been scheduled for your cosmetic procedure...” 

When did you sign up for the Getaway? 

“...in preparation, please halt the usage of your corrective lotion...” 

You’d already stopped. 

“..This is not a request.” 

Of course it’s not. It never is. When has it ever been. 

Not a request, but a direct order with a fine painted coat of false-choice. You didn’t sign up for this. But this fear (is this fear?) just proves you need it now more than ever. The Getaway, the procedure, you don’t care, you trust Better Living. Or you need to. Better Living has your best interests in mind. Keep smiling and Better Living will take care of it, will take care of you. 

You sigh and on impulse anxiously grab at the empty space in front your chest, finding nothing but air between your fingers. Well, of course you do, you don’t wear necklaces, what did you expect to find? Why did you do that? 

You glance around at your coworkers all lost in their own work-lives. Absorbed into computers clicking and typing away. 

For some reason a part of you is disappointed that you’re not wearing a necklace, old and silver and rusted with age - No. Where is this idea coming from. It sure as hell isn’t yours. You don’t wear necklaces. 

You open the second email. 

“Dear employees, 

As you are aware, seven days ago Better Living suffered an information leak. Additional security procedures are being implemented in response. A supervisor will meet with each of you in these coming days to hold a conversation about these measures. 

Keep smiling.” 

You suppose that’s about the commotion you oversaw in the hallway. An information leak? That’s what the emergency memo had said last week as well when the arrest first happened. What could’ve possibly been leaked out? This floor is primarily customer service. What would any outlaws want with customer service information? 

It doesn’t matter. It’s none of your business. You get back to work. 

That night you observe your scars, loud now. At this point they’re covering everything but your face, but they’re getting there, dangerously close. 

You still want them gone, whatever they are. According to your doctor, in five days they will be but you can’t help but rub at your arms anxiously. At this rate, these scars will be visible on your face again before your Getaway begins, whatever that entails. 

Visible on your face "again”? No, you’ve never had scars like this before. You’d remember if you did. “Again.” You perish the thought. You’ve lived in the city your whole life, BL/i would’ve never let you be seen this way before. Your entire life up until this point has been normal and uneventful and perfect. 

And you’d _remember_ if you had scars. 

But you can’t remember, can you? That’s the problem. You’re covered in scars and you have no idea where they came from. You just want them gone. 

You know it’ll change nothing, but you scratch at your arm a bit, only slightly. 

These aren’t things you can just peel away, you know that, but if you could… 

Your fingernails are rough against your skin. 

The compulsion only grows as you feed it. It’s irrational, if your dosage wasn’t so apparently flawed, if you hadn't stopped taking your meds, maybe you wouldn’t be so irrational. But you scratch at your arms. You pinch at your neck. You only need to remove the dry skin, no different from exfoliating, clawing out these imperfections, then you’ll be fine again. You’ll be normal again. You’ll be perfect again. And you’ll stop being so irrational and in need of being fixed. You scratch until it hurts, but you can’t stop yourself until you notice blood. 

You stop and look at yourself. Nothing is better just now in addition to these scars you’re also covered in irritated red splotches where your skin is throwing a fit in protest of what you’ve done. And your clothes are stained ever so slightly from the bleeding welts you’ve created. 

At least it doesn’t feel real, it can’t be real. You suppress your disgust in exchange for disbelief and unreality. 

Curiously, the pain reminds you of something. 

The _burning_ reminds you of something. Red and inflamed and covered in blood that drips down you, you remember the sun burning you raw. But when would it have? Weather is controlled in the city. the sun offers nothing but light; it’s no comfort but no threat either. The sun simply _doesn’t_ burn, but it does. You can remember the way it sweetly embraced your tired limbs and offered relief for your pain. What pain? You can’t remember. 

It doesn’t make sense, radiation is only dangerous outside the perimeter. Where no one can survive for long, where vicious killjoys will kill you at first sight. And you’ve lived your whole life in the city. 

Blood dribbles down your arms and into your sink, startling you. Damn it, this is insane, what’s wrong with you? You push your sleeves up the rest of the way so it’ll stop loosely soaking in your mistakes, and you grab a fistful of toilet paper to press against your wounds. Then in a numb stupor, you make your way to your bedroom. You just need to collect yourself and calm down. You’re fine. 

But as you collapse into your mattress, gripping at your clotting arms, images flash through your mind. The sun dripping in golden white light, it burns through your skin -no it’s not your skin, the realization stabs into you. Who’s memories are these? And the ground below you - below someone - is dust. Everything is dust. There’s nothing. There’s nothing out here but desolation. Battery City sits on the horizon beyond a distortion of waves and auras that pulsate between you and it, and it’s so painfully, painfully far away, a distance that brings you cool relief like the first water you taste in days. 

But no, there are no waves. And the city isn’t out there. It’s here, you’re in it, you, Gary Levko, a miserable little man who doesn’t even know what’s real or not anymore. Your name is Gary Levko. 

You sit up and remove the tissues from your arms. The blood’s dried into thin streams of rust that don’t look quite as bad as you’d feared. You’re okay. 

Your eyes explore your scarred arms, more casually than they have before and more accepting. It’s almost comforting to see yourself covered in the sun’s ghosts like this. To see where it’s kissed along your skin, where your body remembers what you don’t. 

Or at least these scars cover you everywhere except the skin below your left elbow, where you’re still smooth and perfect despite your ache. 

You lose track of time, sitting here staring at yourself until you stop trembling. You hadn’t even realized you were trembling until you stop. 

Then with uncomfortable rapidity, you remember the blood that had gotten into your sink. What if it stains? You jump to your feet. It wasn’t much but it was clear as day, running down the sleek plastic edges, a trail of bright red. You need to clean it out before anyone sees. Before anyone can know what you’ve done. 

You stumble back into the bathroom, panicked, but to your surprise the sink is perfectly clean. You’d watched your blood fall into the sink, so fragile in its whiteness, you know there should be blood here. There simply isn’t. 

You check your arms again, convinced for half a second that you’d imagined the whole ordeal in your insanity, but they’re still decorated with scattered scabs and dried blood. There should be blood in the sink as well. You watched your blood fall into the sink. 

Maybe it’s self cleaning and you just hadn’t noticed? You feel at its surface, examining it, but it's just as plastic as everything else in the city. You step back and check the floor. Maybe in your hysteria you’d just been confused and bleed on the floor tiles instead? They’re clean as well. You could swear you’ve tainted this room but as you look around you see nothing out of place. It’s almost ungodly in its cleanliness. 

Your stomach sinks as you accept the fact that there simply isn’t a flaw in sight, save for yourself. In place of expected chaos you’re met only by neatness, but it’s not neatness by your hand. So then, by whose? You live alone. This apartment is private only to you. Right? 

You watched yourself bleed on the sink. 

There should be blood. 

You suddenly feel watched from all walls and corners and cracks. 

You smile into the mirror and your reflection smiles back. 

  


* * *

  


“Gary meet me in my office in ten.” 

You tug your sleeve down reflexively and look up to see your supervisor standing above you as you hunch over your desk. “Yes ma’am.” 

She leaves and Bob leans over from his cubicle beside yours. 

“Hey, Gary?” 

“Yes?” 

He glances around as if he’s scared of something. “That information leak we had last week…” He pauses. 

You cock your head, waiting for him to continue so you can get back to work. 

“Well, I could get the steel boot for saying this to you, or for saying it at all, but I figured you have the right to know. I was a stand-in at a meeting about it this morning. About the leak, I mean. And I heard everything. About that leak.” 

“Please, Bob. Your point.” 

“Right. Well, a sympathizer for, you know, those desert pests, was behind it and the information they stole was a list of workers on this floor. Of employees.” 

“Strange,” you say indifferently. 

“Don’t act so above this, Gary,” he reprimands you under his breath, “This is serious. This is real. They took a list of names but once they had that, one name in particular, or the files attached to that name rather, were leaked.” 

“What does that h -” 

“They were your files, Gary.” 

You try to argue, but no sound escapes your open mouth. That doesn’t make sense. Nothing has been making sense lately, but this? What would a killjoy spy want your files for? You look up at the clock on the wall. It ticks and your supervisor will be expecting you soon. 

“I should go.” 

“Wait.” 

Bob grabs your bad arm, making you cringe at the way it tugs at your elbow. 

“Gary… you…,” he struggles to find the right words, “Be careful, please.” 

You nod as you pull away. 

Once in your supervisor’s office, she doesn’t even offer you a seat. “Mr. Levko, your ‘Getaway Retreat’ has been pushed up by four days. It starts now.” She clicks her pen and jots something down on a notepad, unbothered by this change of plans. 

“Y - Yes, ma’am,” You stutter out. 

This isn’t right. 

Something is wrong here. 

“A scarecrow unit has already been called to escort you.” 

Wait. this is all happening too fast. You thought you wanted this, but now you’re not so sure. You thought you wanted BL/i to fix you, but, you hardly even notice when a scarecrow grabs hold of you from behind. 

“Wait,” you didn’t mean to say that out loud, “Wait, please.” 

“This isn’t a request, Mr. Levko. This is for your own good.” 

“I know, I know,” you don’t actually know, but you wish you did, “This is just- right now? I haven’t even finished my work for the day.” 

“Your work has been reassigned.” 

“I - yes, of course, yes, yes ma’am, I -,” you don’t know what you’re saying but you feel like you have to say something. You’re building up a nervous sweat and you feel as though your heart is in your throat. 

The power cuts out. 

Your supervisor and her Scarecrow and you all look up in unison. 

“What the shit is going on now,” she curses under her breath, glaring at you in rage and horror as if it’s somehow your fault. “Fuck. Levko don’t fucking move.” 

Then she speaks to the Scarecrow that’s holding you, harshly: “Kill him if he so much as flinches.” She leaves the office.


	5. The Ache

You stand frozen in the near dark, listening to the panicked shuffling of evacuation in the main room behind you. If the Scarecrow weren’t wearing a mask you’re sure you’d be able to feel their breath against your neck. They hold you still.

After a few minutes, after everything’s grown silent save for your ragged panting, emergency lights flicker on. They alternate between a dull white and red and illuminate the empty office space in front of you with an eerie otherworldly glow. Then the siren starts. A low sound at first growing in volume until it’s a full panic-inducing alarm ringing against your eardrums.

But despite everything, you’re not panicked. Maybe it’s just disbelief. Or maybe it’s because you know the Scarecrow won’t actually kill you, they don’t even have their gun out. One hand is holding your arms in place behind your back and the other is against your shoulder. It’s not even a tight grip, all things considered. You could probably break free if you were anyone else right now, if you were anyone but Gary Levko.

The Scarecrow shifts on their weight, bored. The sensation of being touched, of being trapped, is beginning to be too much. The alarm continues, suffocating your thoughts.

Without thinking, you yank your arms out of their hold and turn around. 

They’re startled, but go to reach for their gun. 

This is real, then, isn’t it? They’re going to kill you, and for what? 

You take a step back, then forward again, lunging. 

Even after all this struggling, you still don’t know what’s going on. Or what’s wrong with you. Or who you are.

You pin the Scarecrow against the wall with more strength than an office worker should own. You cling to the Scarecrow’s shoulders, feeling tears struggling to escape your eyes not from grief but from frustration. Anger. You’re tired of not knowing. Of being confused. You want answers. The alarm continues.

“Please…” you choke out. You just need to understand.

The Scarecrow doesn’t seem to know how to respond. They fumble around for their holster.

You don’t know why, but you place the forearm of your bad arm against their throat and twist into their windpipe, not enough to choke them but enough to intimidate. You aren’t feeling like yourself, you haven’t for a while. Maybe it’s withdrawal. Maybe it’s a good thing.

“What’s going on?” you beg of them disjointedly, “Please, just, tell me. What are they going to do to me - what _did_ you do to me?” 

The red lights flash above, illuminating the both of you, illuminating your vision with flashes of red, red, red, a color too familiar - though you can’t grasp what soft memory it reminds you of. 

Without so much as a word, the Scarecrow presses the tip of their ray gun against your skin, a ring of plastic you can barely feel against the deteriorating nerves of your aching arm. For barely a second the blaster sits against the thickest part of your muscle beside your bent elbow. As the lights reflect off the plastic canvas of their mask, the expressionless Better Living logo smiling into you blank eyes reflecting your own, they tilt their head to the side, out of the way, and they shoot.

Everything is loud. Then it isn’t. Bright and then too dark. You stumble back, eyes struggling to adjust from the blast. Your ears ring out. Electric shocks run up your severed nerves where the laser pierced them and when you look down you can’t quite make out what you see.

At least you finally understand what's been causing your ache, and why your arm hadn’t scarred like the rest of your corporeal body. Ragged metal shards like daggers instead of bones jut out, tangled up in copper and red - green - blue - wires and glass bulbs like batteries soldered into the silvery joints of whatever the foreign contraption is. A prosthetic?

And it feels like your bones have been shattered, and they should be, you were just shot, but this, this, this, it’s not your bones it’s Better Living tech. It was a part of you. And now it’s not. Pieces of your arm litter the office carpet. You cradle against your chest whatever rubble is left of it. You don’t question how this happened; why you can’t remember having a cybernetic installed, or why you can’t remember losing your arm in the first place. You’re beyond questions like that already.

Your face scrunches up in what? Betrayal? Disgust? At yourself or at the people who did this to you? Hurt, you look up at the scarecrow. A protector, they should help, that’s their job, to keep people safe, to - the gun is now aimed directly at your head.

“Sir, I -” You raise your remaining hand up in a surrender. You shouldn’t be scared, but you are. You trust Better Living, but you don’t. If you’re meant to be exterminated, then that’s for the better of the city, but it isn’t, you know it isn’t, you know this is wrong. Your stance sways as you stare at the scarecrow. Presumably it stares back, adjusting its grip on the ray gun, tightening its fingers in either anticipation or decision, you can't tell.

Your body moves before you can think to, sidestepping the Scarecrow’s aim and grabbing its ray gun from the side to try and disarm it. The two of you struggle over the gun until the Scarecrow’s grip falters and it unceremoniously drops it, shooting the ceiling in the process. The Scarecrow pulls away from you, going for the dropped gun. 

You tackle it, slamming into the rough carpet. A fist strikes your temple and makes you lose your grip on the Scarecrow’s collar. It pushes you off easily and stands up, almost as shaky as you are. As it bends over again for the gun, you pounce first, fumbling with the mechanics of the blaster and struggling to find a grip. The Scarecrow seizes you by the hair and drags you backwards across the carpet. Your scalp cries out in pain, you scream, and without thinking you pull the trigger.

This time when the scarecrow falls, it feels louder. 

And when it hits the ground it comes to rest inhumanly still.

Everything is still now. 

Though you're silent now, the alarm echoes your scream.

You push yourself away from the body to sit against the office’s corner, white knuckling the ray gun. It fits in your hand more comfortably than you’d like to admit. 

You force yourself to breathe in and out slow unknowing breaths until your racing pulse slows down (not as much as you’d like it to but as much as you could ask for, all things considered). You count along with the flashing lights until you stop shaking (not completely, but until your trembling is manageable).

Do you think you could stand up? It takes you a second, but you find your footing. 

You slide the smoking gun into your pants pocket. Not the safest place for it, but you should have something to defend yourself with from now on, now that you’re an outlaw.

You’re an outlaw. You don’t have the time to unpack that concept. You pull the scarecrow’s company ID off its lapel and clip it to your own in case you need the barcode for something, your own ID likely blacklisted by now.

Standing over the body, you look at it. It’s dead. There’s not much else to say, but it feels like there should be. It’s too final like this. Too sudden. This was a living person and you killed it in a blind panic. 

You’re an outlaw. You’re insurgent. You’re a murderer. 

Maybe it’d be something of a comfort to think of all the people you’ve already killed through emails and bureaucracy. When you assign scarecrow units to the people who dare complain about Better Living, what else could possibly stem from that other than the obvious? You’ve already killed people, this is just the first time you’ve been forced to do the dirty work yourself. But it isn’t new. So you shouldn’t let it distract you.

You shake your head. Hooking your grip around the artificial bones of your destroyed prosthetic, you pull. 

It tugs on your skin like a scab not meant to come off, still sewn into you, and you can feel it slide through your muscles where it’d been attached. But you’re a fugitive now, that much is clear, so you can’t afford to have this technology - and whatever that entails - on you, especially not as useless to you as it is now. With a pop it falls out of your elbow. The metal bars that’d been inside you were much longer than you’d expected, a good five inches or so, producing narrow puncture wounds that bleed. Blood aside, the most notable feeling is relief. Something about this is a relief.

You breathe, glad that it was only the BL/i tech disgusting you. Your arm itself doesn't feel like a loss. And though you can’t piece together anything more tangible than fleeting emotions, a part of you remembers losing it in a fight ages ago. With that comes a comfort of familiarity you can’t describe.

Keeping your eyes averted, you remove the Scarecrow’s light jacket. To the best of your ability you tie it around your bleeding arm, what’s left of your arm, to hold the wound together at least for now. It needs stitches, but this will have to be enough.

What now? You’re armed and you have clearance to the rest of this building, but you can’t just leave and go home can you? There’ll be scarecrows and dracs stationed out there by now, waiting for you and ready to ghost at first sight. 

It was never the safest apartment, was it? How long had BL/i been watching you in there? What access do they have to your private home? This whole city is a glass maze. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ll need to find a new place to live.

You start walking, out of your supervisor’s office and towards the elevators. The entire floor is empty now besides you. It’s eerie like this. It feels apocalyptic and puts you on edge. Someone’s in the hallway around the corner - there’s footsteps. You freeze.

Whoever it is is getting closer fast, and once they see you, they’ll exterminate you. You glance around looking for an out, eyes falling over a supply closet. It’s locked, but quickly swiping your new ID clicks it open and you slide inside to safety.

It’s not a small space, though you can’t tell how large it is in the pitch black. Under the locked door, you watch the shadows that leak in: two figures enter the office space you’d just left. You can just barely make out their words.

“...so I’m sorry, I know I should’ve left and gone home like everyone else, but he’s my friend.”

“He’s a liability.” 

It’s Bob. And your exasperated supervisor.

“All I wanted was to come back here for a second and make sure he was safe. I didn’t mean to get in your way. I didn’t even realize you’d be here too or that it’d be so -”

“Mr. Fillmore, that’s enough out of you. The only reason I haven’t killed you yet is because you may be useful for if he…” she pauses, surprise cutting her off. “Well would you look at that. He did put up a fight. But you aren’t useful in this situation after all.” 

There’s a blast and a thud. Through the crack under the door you can see the body, and the blood, though mostly obscured.

Your supervisor hurriedly walks around like she’s looking for something, looking for you. Just as you start feeling around your closet for a spare box to hide in, she walks back into the hallway she came from, evidently moving on to check somewhere else.

As good as it'd be to wait and make sure she's gone for good, you need to leave eventually. If not now, when? It’ll only get more dangerous for you as time passes. 

Slowly you open the door. You can’t tear your gaze away from Bob all the while. He’s not as still as the Scarecrow was, he’s still breathing, but the pooling blood beneath him is concerning.

You step around the edges of the few cubicles between you. Blood stains the leather of your shoes crimson. You fall to your knees.

Cradling Bob's head in the crook of your arm, you whimper, “Come on, please don’t…” You jolt him lightly once as if to wake him up.

Without opening his eyes all the way he murmurs, “I’m fine. I’ll be alright.”

“You’re… are you…” you can’t bring yourself to say the word “dying”, it doesn’t feel like a word you should be able to say, not in this context. Bob's not a criminal, not like you, he didn't do anything to deserve this. “I’ll get you help. I'll get someone. Just don’t go anywhere.”

It’s an empty offer and you don’t move a muscle. Help isn’t an option. If anyone useful saw you right now, they’d kill you. You’re just trying to bargain with Bob, really, trying to trick him into staying alive for a little longer.

“Gary, you need to go. They think you’re a killjoy.”

You chuckle, adrenaline getting to you. “But I’m not.”

“You might be.”

“I’m not.”

Bob shakes his head, “Doesn’t matter. I’m fine. But you need to leave, please. I’ll be fine.”

What used to be a charcoal suit is now dark around his midsection, thick and warm. It doesn’t look like the stream of blood is slowing down. The pool beneath him is drying. “I’ll take you with me.”

“Where? The desert? You couldn’t carry me that far.”

“I’m not going to the desert. Killjoys would kill me.”

Bob runs his fingers over your makeshift sling, distracted. “Your arm…”

“Don’t worry, it was fake.”

“A droid arm?”

You give a noncommittal nod and shrug.

“Are you…?”

“No. I’m - I don’t know. I think I’m human. But -,” you can’t make eye contact with him as you say this, “- I don’t know. I think I don’t know anything about myself anymore. I don’t know what to trust.”

“Hey, hey, hey, that’s fine, that’s alright,” Bob wipes away the tears you hadn’t noticed falling, “If nothing else you can trust me, right?

A short sob escapes you, “I just, I don’t know what to do now. I thought I understood everything but even with my memories I don’t know what’s real or not anymore. And without my meds I’ve felt so… what’s the opposite of ‘numb’?” You smile. “But yes I… I think I trust you,” you lie.

“You’ve always been loyal to Better Living. I admire that about you. I wish I could devote myself to them the way you do. But to be honest, the way your devotion is so mindlessly a part of you, it’s almost as if you’ve been brainwashed.”

You flinch.

Bob continues, “But if they want you dead, they want you dead. That devotion needs to end somewhere. It needs to end where it becomes a detriment to your well being. Just keep smiling, Levko, things will work out. If you get out of the city, you'll be safe.”

Time is running out, you need to come up with a plan. “What about Juvie Hall?” you offer.

“They'll find you there too.” Bob’s voice is growing quieter.

“There’s… the slums, or the Lobby… or…”

“Gary…”

“I’ve never actually been to the desert you know,” you whine. You can't help it, you're terrified.

“Are you sure?”

Biting your lip, you lay Bob back down and stand up, looking around the office for one last time. You don't answer him, but you confess, “I’m sorry that I never got to know you better.”

“What do you mean? You’re my best friend.” 

“I am? I never paid attention to you, not as much as I should have. I’ve been caught up in my own head for too long. I don’t even know… _anything_ about you.” 

But you’re his best friend? Really? Your chest feels heavy.

“I just didn’t realize I had a presence in other people’s lives.”

“That’s okay!” He smiles, pained, “Maybe one day we’ll meet again. And we can start over.”

You nod. “I’d like that.”

  


* * *

  


Luckily, the elevator is running on emergency power.

As the lift’s doors shut and it begins its descent, you relax straightening out your shoulders and tie. For now you’re alone. For now you’re safe.

The elevator slows at the 35th floor.

A girl walks in. You get the impression that she’s older than she looks, twin blond pigtails resting above her shoulders. She’s at least a full head shorter than you and stands at your side as the doors close again. Things are quiet for just long enough that you pray she won’t give you any trouble.

She breaks that silence. “You’re a scarecrow, huh?” The way she speaks is provincial, her words relaxed and slurred together ever so slightly.

“What? I -”

Hardly breaking her hundred yard stare straight ahead, she nods towards the ID you’re wearing.

“Right. Yes, I am.”

“Then you’re already aware of the raid?”

“The raid?”

“Killjoys. In the city. Tryin’ to break out one of their own.” She speaks low and stern, glancing in your direction as if you’re stupid for not picking up on her act.

“Right.” Your voice noticeably cracks.

The girl tugs at her pigtails. “Jeez. Look babe, just take El Monte outta the city and the van’ll be waitin’ for you once you hit sand. I’ll meet up with you then too. Can’t follow now unfortunately, there’s birds on my tail. You know how it is.” She laughs and presses the elevator’s basement button. “If you take the garage exit you won’t be seen with all that hemoglobin over your getup."

You gawk at her, stunned. The way she spoke to you was so casual it’s as if you’re old colleagues, but for the life of you you can’t identify her nor can you identify why she’d want to help you. Nor how she even knows you need help in the first place, for that matter.

The elevator halts at the ground floor and she steps out. 

“Wait.”

She holds the doors open with her foot.

“Do I know you?”

You didn’t realize how confident she looked until you watch that confidence drip away with your question. She eyes you, eyebrows raised and mouth open slightly, trying to parse what you meant by that. What wrench you just threw into her plans.

She recomposes herself. 

“Pony misses you, Sodapop. Just get to the border, alright?” Her voice is compassionate and casual as if she were only asking a simple favor. 

She’s grinning as the elevator doors cross your vision and it’s the most genuine grin you’ve seen in as long as you can remember. 

You’re alone again.


	6. Sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol sorry this fic is getting updated 3 months later than I said I would update it. In my defense, my adhd is unmedicated. (also I changed the fic's title again, don't worry about it ❤️)

The gravity of the situation sets in halfway down El Monte.

It hadn’t felt real before, and why should it have? _Nothing_ felt real - nothing _was_ real, you realize now - so why should it have felt real that you killed a man and watched your coworker bleed out on the floor. Because of you.

Dammit, your coworker bled out because of you.

Would you have done the same for him? Of course not, you hardly knew him. The sun hangs low and orange in the white sky.

You’d ditched your bloody suit jacket back in the parking garage, save for one sleeve which you’d wrapped around your bleeding arm as a makeshift bandage. How you already knew the best way to tie it, you’ve no idea, but at least you look halfway presentable now. With the stolen scarecrow ID on your lapel, no one should question you as you limp down the sidewalk.

And no one does. Nameless faceless people walk around you, grey, grey, grey, it makes you sick. It’s nauseating. It’s not real. It’s like a magazine ad the way everything shines.

You pause to lean against the sleek metal wall of a skyscraper. No one pays you any mind as you catch your breath, as you cough, as sweat drips off your chin. You’re out in the open and no one cares. Good.

A siren wails from where you came and you’re sure it’s nothing, just the usual traffic, but you duck into the alley just to be sure.

You realize you’ve been crying again.

Whimpers choke in your throat. In the shade you try to rest your eyes but with every blink you see the dead Scarecrow’s body. You see Bob’s body. You look down and see your sleeve covered in blood. You open your eyes and the sights are gone again. But still you cry.

  


* * *

  


The sun burns where it hangs between skyscrapers. The city looks aflame and your head rings from the light.

You don’t have much farther to go and you smile, you keep smiling, as the number of blocks between you and the edge of the city dwindles. Where heat meets the sand between the horizon’s skyscrapers, a mirage dances. Your limp turns into a stride into a desperate awkward run and you keep smiling until the last two buildings flanking you fade into your peripheral. The road cuts off as though it were torn like paper. And below you is desert sand.

It's flat. The desert is flat. Maybe you should've realized it would be, and you feel like you already knew, but looking at it now is dreamlike. In the distance are mountains. The sun stares you down. Early sunset clouds fill the sky where there was once smog, where there was once window after window. Ribs are worn into the ground from the wind, winding out in all directions like natural pathways pointing towards countless unknowns. Radiation soaks into your skin, warming your scars.

You look around for the van you were promised. You trust the lady you met in the elevator, more than you should, so with a bouncing leg you wait. You look along the City’s border. It’s almost jarring how harsh the divide is between the City and the desert. Like a canvas cut in half; one half jagged, chaotic, and claustrophobic, and the other half empty. And the world around you is silent. Until a siren cuts off your thoughts.

Speeding down El Monte straight towards you is a van, but not any killjoy van like you'd been hoping for. A scarecrow unit is on your trail. Confirming your victimhood, the siren stops now that you’re within its sight.

You lunge into the desert, feverishly, desperate, running. You can't outrun a car but if you get far enough into the Zones maybe they'll just give up, forfeit you to the mercy of desolation, leave you to rot out here among your fellow outlaws. The sand is heavy on your gait trailing behind you in clouds. Your lungs burn, unprepared for this sudden sprint.

As you run, the headache that’d been building earlier comes to a peak, nearly physical. Your earlier visions - of the Scarecrow - of Bob - of their blood on you, on your hands - all flood back to a chorus of “you, you, you, **you** did this because you’re a filthy killjoy”. Lost and confused but, apparently, a killjoy nonetheless. Or as-good-as a killjoy. Or -

The static in your head unravels into a pressure against the inside of your skull. Something’s wrong. Your memories of Battery City suddenly blend with something else. The unfamiliar desert grows in familiarity, in a painful deja vu you can feel in your ribs. And although you already miss the mundane, the mundane is rolling in its grave. Only minutes into this hopeless adventure and the desert is as much your home as your office was. Sand blows around you in the wind that gusts past your ears in roars. A distant clock ticks in an office space long forgotten. You stumble a bit, losing your footing briefly, but you keep running, keep running, keep running, pining to return to what you can’t remember.

You trip and nearly fall again, your legs giving into fatigue. The soft hues of the desert that just a moment ago drew you in with awe are now nothing more than colors and shapes. The world grows far away. The scarecrows grow closer. Despite your best efforts you feel yourself fading away

You trip, landing on your knees hard, and you lose yourself.


	7. Cherri

Your name is Cherri Cola.

It was a joke, originally. Most things are in your experience. You were around to watch BL/i rise in power during the Analogue Wars and that, too, felt like a joke at first, like a passing trend, like a meme. But when the last bomb fell and the corporation came out on top, it was almost numbingly predictable. What came afterwards, however, was new.

Your boyfriend at the time, Thomas, was the one who’d first suggested dying your hair and donning cardboard clown masks. A few killjoys had done so during the war itself, as some statement or some disguise (or both), but it wasn’t until afterwards that it became the norm. You were hesitant, but you were agreeable. Your silver streak became hot pink over a bathroom sink. Thomas laughed against the mirror. You kissed him and into his mouth you whispered, “What about you?”

“I was thinking a green would look shiny on me, don’t you think?” He smiled.

You’d lost a lot to that war, everyone had. Thomas lost his plane ride home when the rest of the world went silent, not that he minded being stuck with you for the time being.

In outer LA you’d lost your home. Helpless to save it, you’d watched Better Living demolish it in the middle of the night to the tune of fire and droids. Thomas let you cry on his shoulder that dawn, holding your head close, his jacket over your shoulders. And the day after, he let you laugh.

LA suffered loss as well, becoming Battery City.

What else was there to lose in a name?

You used to collect soda cans in your home, now rubble. You’d had a shelf by your bed where you kept them washed out and in a row. All the tabs had been popped off, strung up into necklaces that you buried in a side drawer. Thomas always joked that you were some kind of coca-cola addict with a hyperfixation like that. So in sarcastic tribute to your lost collection, you chose your name. Named not after the father you couldn’t save, nor your cousin, nor your dog, but named for your soda cans.

Maybe given a second chance you would’ve chosen a different name. Or maybe not. Your name is Cherri Cola. Always will be. Always has been.

A ray of light beams past your ear. An electric shiver zings up your spine.

You scramble to your feet and you’re already running.

With a quick turn to the right, the scarecrow unit zips past you, struggling to find traction on this terrain. It's a fast car but you recognize it as an older model by the rust on its bumper. You know for a fact some friends promised to meet you here by now, in an even rustier van, but with no other killjoys in sight you’ll play this game of snake for as long as necessary.

You feel a weight in your pocket. The scarecrow gun that you - or Gary, rather - stashed eons ago. You zip it out, your finger stiff on the trigger. It’s at 50% charge - good enough for what you need. Over your shoulder you shoot at the van’s tires.

Something pops but the van keeps roaring, towards you again. Your lungs burn. and glorious color bleeds into the edges of your vision.

You can’t keep going like this, but what’s the alternative? You shoot at the windshield and it cracks like a spiderweb.

Seven months ago you were here, just like this. Without one of your arms, with blood where it used to be, and with an angry van rushing you. And what happened next?

You dodge the van again, taking advantage of your agility, making up for your exhaustion. As the van passes you again, it strains on its u-turn. You dent the back door with your next messy shot.

Pony was meant to meet up with you too, seven months ago. Just like Hot Chimp promised to meet up with you today. A blast - set to stun - strikes your shoulder. With terror you realize they still want you alive.

And what happened the last time they took you alive?

You’re still running, you would never willingly stop, but your muscles protest with every beat of your heart. You send out one more prayer to the Witch that Hot Chimp will find you here, in the nick of time, any moment now, with any tremble of your breath.

The van slows behind you.

But your name is Cherri Cola. At least your name is Cherri Cola. Your body slows down, unable to put up with the pain for any longer, but at least you’re Cherri Cola and you can finally remember yourself; the war, Tommy, pink dye in the sink, the radio station at sunrise, polaroid photos bleached in the sun, Dr. D, Show Pony, and the leaky kitchen faucet you were always promising to fix. You’re back, you’re back, you’re back -

A scarecrow yanks your arm back. You drop your gun into their grip. If you weren’t so horrified, you would scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the cliffhanger, idk when the next chapter is coming, but comments/kudos appreciated like always!!! plz!


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